


pas toi, mais moi

by scrubbadub



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-12
Updated: 2020-11-12
Packaged: 2021-03-08 22:05:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,556
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27340156
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scrubbadub/pseuds/scrubbadub
Summary: “It’s a funny thing coming home. Nothing changes. Everything looks the same, feels the same, even smells the same. You realized what’s changed is you.” - F. Scott FitzgeraldIt’s a year after the revolution has succeeded. Enjolras and Grantaire have reached a strange sort of domesticity living together, and Grantaire chooses this morning as the day to reflect upon it.
Relationships: Enjolras/Grantaire (Les Misérables)
Comments: 4
Kudos: 36
Collections: Enjoltaire Games 2020





	pas toi, mais moi

**Author's Note:**

> My submission for the Enjoltaire Games of 2020. Team Grantaire.

The sun is what wakes Grantaire up. It slices through the window in delicate rays, branching itself across their prone forms, and Grantaire, cracking open an eye to lazily shield his face from the light and further preserve what dregs of sleep are still clinging to his mind, he finds his gaze easily drifting over to Enjolras.

It’s gone like this for a good few months now. The revolution was not easy, dragged on for months and months, and the casualty list was dishearteningly high. Through the skin of their teeth they pulled through, though, and France sits liberated in her newfound freedom ever since. Enjolras is tired, but Grantaire has noticed the shift in his eyes, the pride he carries with him ever since their victory; for once in his life, he has been pleasantly proven wrong, and it’s been hard but worth it to adjust to the aftermath.

That isn’t to say that they have not had their fair share of issues adjusting, but France is a stubborn country, set in her ways, and nothing is ever easy with her. 

It is a continual challenge, then, to get Enjolras to rest just as his country is finally beginning to do. He manages, though. It’s on days like these, lazy mornings, gentle starts to summer, that he’s able to drape his arm around a sleeping Enjolras with nothing more than a passing thought.

The movement makes Enjolras stir, but instead of pulling away from him, he snuggles in closer, groaning. The sun reflects off of his hair where it slivers through the cracks of his arm and the space where the blankets don’t quite cover their heads, and illuminated by the morning, Enjolras’ sleepy face is revealed in all its glory. There’s a little bit of drool still smudged on his cheek from where he’d let his cheek rest on his pillow. The sight makes Grantaire’s stomach flutter.

How did he get this lucky, he wonders, lucky enough that a godless cretin like him could hold a god like this so tenderly? It must be illegal, he thinks, but many things are illegal, and closeness has never been one of them. He has never worried about what could happen in his own home. If someone were to find them like this, the worst that would happen would be a snide remark. 

It is also _their home_ , so nobody should be coming in anyways.

Grantaire lets himself doze for a little while longer before he finally hoists himself out of bed slowly, groaning as he stretches. Something in his back pops pleasantly and he stands up. Enjolras grumbles, but doesn’t quite join him in wakefulness, and he lets his gaze linger fondly on the man for a little while more before going off to find a clean pair of trousers. 

He ought to remind Enjolras that laundry needs to be done. The small things they talk about, but the larger things, well… 

The larger things he can wait to speak on. There’s no rush anymore. The urgency has passed.

Slipping into a relatively clean pair of trousers and a loose shirt, he pulls socks onto his feet and stifles a yawn as he walks out of the bedroom, rubbing at his eyes. He should mention that there’s too much clutter in the living area to Enjolras at one point or another. Perhaps they could give some of it away to those who’d need it more, that’s the sort of thing Enjolras would like, Grantaire reckons.

Just as he steps foot in the kitchen, though, Enjolras steps out of the bedroom and into the living area, rubbing at his eyes tiredly. There’s a snarl in his hair from where he slept on it and he looks vaguely disoriented from waking up. It’s endearing enough to make Grantaire’s heart melt.

How did he get this lucky, Grantaire wonders, how is it that it was he who was trusted with this kind of vulnerability? Enjolras certainly would not let Combeferre witness him like this, though has most undoubtedly been witnessed by him regardless of want. He has fallen asleep at meetings before. They all have, there is no shame in it.

He does not understand the trust, but he will not squander it, and instead ignore the strange, warm contented feeling in his chest as Enjolras passes.

“And where are you going now, oh fearless leader?” Grantaire quips, voice rough around the edges from sleep. Enjolras grumbles a response. All he manages to catch is a passing mention of coffee. “Now, now, I’ve yet to put it in the pot, practice patience, my dear.”

“So we have upgraded from lion to dear. Interesting,” Enjolras mutters, but acquiesces nonetheless.

Grabbing said coffee pot, he pats Enjolras on the shoulder as he fumbles around the kitchen for the water they store for things like this, and he turns his head to find Enjolras lighting the stove quietly, almost lazily. It takes a moment or two to properly put everything together and put coffee on to heat and strain, but as he does, there’s a weight on his back that he comes to notice. Turning his head, he watches Enjolras thump his head in-between his shoulder blades, eyes closed.

“Are you going to fall back asleep right here, then? Standing up, France shall slumber with you, surely.” That earns him an irritable grunt, and he chuckles.

“It’s too _early_ , René. I am _tired_ and France may _wait_ an hour for me to catch up with her. She deserves her rest.” It almost sounds like whining, to Grantaire’s ears, but he makes no comment and instead settles on a smirk.

Grantaire rolls his eyes, then finally pours himself a cup of coffee. Pouring Enjolras a cup, he starts rummaging around for some bread. There’s nothing better for breakfast than bread and coffee. It’s not fancy, but it gets the job done just fine, and there’s plenty of cheese to pair with it. “So, Enjolras, what is on the list of things we must do today? Which officiary have you managed to steal a meeting with?”

Sipping his coffee and finally looking a little more awake, Enjolras ventures out into the living room and sits down. Grantaire follows after with breakfast in hand. “Well,” Enjolras begins, rubbing his eyes. “I must meet with a dignitary from England to officiate France’s liberation. The King has been sending letters and has been quite upset with our local uprising. I think he is full of- well. It’d be unreasonable to debase myself to his level and insult him like that, but I will leave my opinion with the consistency of thinking that his country would be much better off without him. America is doing just fine, is it not? We are doing just fine now.”

Grantaire nods, sitting down in a nearby chair. “Yes, but you also know that England is more than capable of destroying us were we to outwardly express our displeasure with them. I am not saying you are _wrong_ , lion, but you know how to be tactful, and I implore you to be tactful just this once.”

Enjolras frowns. “As if I would not be tactful with a royal dignitary. I am defiant, not stupid.”

Sipping his coffee, Grantaire grins behind his cup. “I would beg to differ.”

“You beg for anything. This changes nothing.” Waving him off, Enjolras sips his coffee and stretches, sighing. Grantaire just laughs.

“I beg for you! Were we baser creatures, my begging would take different tones, different strokes, different measures; fool yourself not because you wish to seem above me, but fool yourself because you know that were we beastlier, you would enjoy it!” That specific remark earns him a scowl so he drops the tangent, shoving cheese and bread into his mouth appeasingly.

“You like to tease, be serious,” Enjolras grumbles.

“Hm, no, I don’t think I shall. It’s far more enjoyable to watch you fluster.” Grantaire swallows his food, then drains the rest of his coffee cup and relishes in the comfortability and familiarity of their morning banter.

It settles on him, then, gently, like the dawn, that he doesn’t think of this as anything other than home. This is _comfortable_ , familiar, soft, the actions between them, these quiet mornings, warm banter; it’s a shocking pace from the cold closeness they’d had to grow accustomed to at the very beginning of the revolution, their close quarters nothing more than necessity, but now…

It feels like home.

Nothing has changed beyond the circumstances of which they are together, truly, but the atmosphere, the relationship, something shifted when he wasn’t watching, and he only now notices when Enjolras talks, absorbed in his morning plans, vulnerable and bared open for only him to see. It’s the kind of vulnerability a man offers to family, to lovers, to friends, but he knows not where he stands amidst those ranks, only that he is somewhere in-between. Close enough to be known and held close and cherished.

He doesn’t want to let go.

“... Enjolras?” He ventures, and the man pauses mid-sentence, lowering his coffee cup slightly.

“Yes?” Enjolras replies.

“... hm, nevermind. Keep speaking. I was merely lost in thought.” Temporarily satisfied with the reply, Enjolras nods and continues to speak, and Grantaire lets him.

What a wonderful home this is, then.


End file.
